Silent Night, Deadly night
by AlessNox
Summary: John has returned from his trip only to find that Mary has been taken hostage by a murderer who killed in a jealous rage. He and Sherlock must save her and then try to unravel their own love triangle before it goes the same way. The ending of the starcrossed series. Follows Runaway.
1. Silent Night

_**NOTE: For those of you who have read the sequence of stories starting with Moving, this is an alternate ending to the story THE RUNAWAY PACT, where before John can be found, Mary gets abducted by a killer while with Sherlock on a case. This is a preSeason3 Mary. The stories that led up to this are Runaway 1 and Runaway 2. Sorry if this causes anyone confusion. Thanks for reading.**_

Sherlock crawled across the tiles. He traced the footprint on the floor with the tip of his finger and then looked up at the aisle. It had been cleared of people, but their remains were still there, their muddy prints, the scuff marks left behind from their frightened exit. Those crowded steps made as they rushed from the room remained, obscuring the path of the one woman that he sought to find. The woman who he had lived in the same flat with for the better part of a month. The woman who was married to his best friend.

This line of investigation was unlikely to yield a useful result, so he rose to his feet and turned to the policeman at his side. Lestrade was on the phone arguing furiously with someone apparently about the decision of the yard to close down one of London's busiest department stores on Christmas eve.

"Lestrade, could he have escaped the building?"

"There's no way. We had men on all of the exits before we entered, and we have a helicopter scanning the roof. All of the customers were visually scanned before being released from the building."

"Could they have got past your men?"

"With a hostage? No, Sherlock. My men know their jobs. They were provided with a picture of the manager and Mary. Also, someone who knew the manager was there at each of the exits. The store should be cleared by now. I've called in men to do a visual sweep of all of the rooms."

"This man is deceptive, and he has killed two people. He won't be easy to find."

"They are walking in pairs, sweeping each floor. We'll find her. Calm down, Sherlock. We'll find her."

Sherlock clasped his gloved hands into fists. Mary. a madman had taken Mary. He had reached for a child but she had pushed his hand away and got a concussion for her heroism. Yes, it was heroism to trade her life for that of a child. What was it about Watsons that led them to be heroic? Sherlock would rather the murderer had taken the child. Mary's capture introduced so many unwanted emotions.

_Anxiety_ - For what John will think when he finds out. For what he will feel. And if she dies, how would he take her death? They've barely been married six months. Isn't today their anniversary?

_Shock_ - That someone who he was arguing with just this morning was snatched from his side. He should have been able to prevent it. John would certainly think that he should have, and he would blame Sherlock.

_Shame_ - For having thought for a moment that it would be easier for him if she was dead. Even he knew that that thought was more than a little not good. He could never admit to having felt it, but he knew, he knew! that Mary would guess that he felt that way. If they got her back alive, no _when_ they got her back, would she resent him for that stray thought? Would she tell John?

Before he had met John, he had not had such anxieties. He was a man alone. Now he had to face the fact that he had forged a bond, a dependence on having John in his life, and perhaps he had even formed one with Mary.

For the last few days and nights, she had almost never left his side. He had thought of those times as filled with conflict, but to an outside observer, they were full of harmony. Mary Watson shared John's ability to anticipate his needs, passing him a cup of tea before he could ask for it, and making sure to ask questions so that his thoughts continued to flow. They had cooperated in the search for John, Mary taking the lead when his failed, working together to find John. She had cared for him when he was ill, getting his medicine, and making his bed even as she chastised him for trying to steal her husband. They complimented each other so well that Mrs Hudson had suspected that they were having an affair!

Ridiculous! Mrs Hudson had never been the most observant landlady to Sherlock's frequent relief, but there was a grain of truth to this affair. If Sherlock was completely honest with his emotions, then he had to admit that he _liked_ Mrs Watson. She didn't have most of the annoying traits that John's other girlfriends had had. She never objected to John's coming over, day or night. She had supported him when he wanted to move in to the old flat to care for Sherlock when he was injured. And she allowed Sherlock to stay in his flat even though John admitted that they had been involved in a sexual relationship. Sherlock knew very few women who would have agreed to such an arrangement. That is, very few woman who still appeared to have the strength and self-esteem of Mary Watson. She had never backed down from Sherlock Holmes in a fight, and she had done her best to draw back John's sexual interest to great effect if the moans and screams that he had heard emanating from their bedroom was any sign. She had been a formidable opponent, and he had appreciated the challenge that she posed, but that was just a game. This kidnapping was no game. It was life and death.

Candice Singer was dead. Strangled with the cords of a set of Christmas lights. Sherlock wondered if they were plugged in when he did it. Did the lights glow and flicker while she gasped out her last breaths. Maybe after this was over, he could examine the body and see if there were burn marks from the lights. But that was inconsequential. The problem now was finding Mary before the manager lost hope and decided to kill her and himself. Sherlock guessed the odds of such a happening to be greater than fifty percent. Depression was highest at Christmas time, and having just killed his professed love, this man was very likely to be depressed as soon as the adrenaline wore off.

He shook his fists,_ "Sherlock, THINK!"_

Sherlock pulled out his phone and broke into the fire inspection database to pull up the plans of this building. It had two floors above ground, and one beneath. The lower levels were a maze of store rooms. There was a loading dock in the basement. Deliveries came by truck. Half a dozen policemen should be guarding that exit by now.

Most of the store was one continuous floor. Escalators went to the second floor which overhung the first creating a high ceiling in the center with space for the enormous Christmas tree that dominated the glass fronted lobby. There was a row of check out stands, departments in little clumps around the floor. Of course there were departments, this was a department store! And a set of doors that led to the back hall. The staff elevator was across from the hall where the first murder had been committed, the murder of man dressed as Father Christmas. A kindly man, not as old as he looked, who had charmed lovely Candice and thus sewn the seeds of jealousy that had led to this ghastly murder and abduction.

Where were they?

He needed clues.

In the absence of inspiration, Sherlock decided to go back to the scene of the crime. The dressing room where the first murder occurred. Hopefully there he would get a bolt of inspiration, because if he didn't find Mary soon, Sherlock was certain that all that he would be able to give John for Christmas would be her dead body.


	2. All is calm, All is bright

John walked out of the station and listened to the sounds of the city. No other city sounded like London. Yes, other cities had cars, and buses, and crowds of people rushing about in a frenzy to make their Christmas purchases, but there was a crispness to the air here that made it all sound more vibrant and alive. Some magic of acoustics which made the honking of horns blend into the sound of chimes, and the rumble of distant voices rise and fall in time like the sound of a sonnet.

Despite having been away only a few days, John found that he had missed London and its promise of excitement around every corner. A promise that had once faded, but now had returned because Sherlock was back in his life.

Harry walked up to him and handed him a bag of crisps. "This was the only thing that looked good," she said opening her bag before looking out at the passing cars. "So, is it my place again, or have you made your decision at last?"

Just then the phone beeped and Harry pulled it from her pocket. "Great! maybe Jazz can meet us." She stared down at the message with a frown. "I really hate junk messages. Who would send a spam text about Bottecelli?"

"What did you say!" John yelled.

"This text. [**The Madonna, Botticelli nudes] **what does that mean?"

"Let me see that," John said taking the phone from her hand and staring at the message. He dropped the bag of crisps then and ran down the pavement while Harry called from behind.

The Madonna was code for Mary, and Botticelli nudes meant a hostage situation. John ran out into the street standing his ground as a taxi honked to a stop. He jumped inside and gave the driver the address of the department store.

"I know that it's Christmas eve and all," the driver said, "but it's not worth risking your life to buy a present. It's the thought that counts, they say."

"This address, fast as you can. It's important!" John said leaning forward until the cab picked up speed. He sat back in his seat and texted furiously.

**[Its me. Situation]**

The reply came in less than a minute.

**[Manager, killed two employees. Has Mary. SH]**

John's heart nearly stopped in his chest. Mary was in danger, and he was not there.

"Hurry man!" he said. "There's money in it for you."

**[On my way, where do I find you?]**

**[In the thick of it, as always SH]**

The drive took entirely too long, and then they were there. He could see a host of flashing lights. The traffic was being redirected. Ahead,

"This is as close as I can get," The driver said, and John climbed out throwing all the bills that he could reach through the driver's window."

"Thank you, and Merry Christmas!" The driver said with a smile, but John had already forgotten him in hiis dash across the roadway. A helicopter passed by overhead, and John slowed to a walk pulling out the phone.

**[I'm outside.] **

**[Sending someone for you. SH]**

John reached the yellow police tape, and was stopped by an officer. "I'm looking for Inspector Lestrade," he said, but the patrolman just shook his head until a tall, black woman in high heels rushed over.

"It's okay, let him through!" she called, and John ducked under the tape and rushed toward Sergent Donovan. She nodded once at him and then turned leading him back through the sea of policemen and into the building.

The glass door closed out the city sounds, and a silence descended, interrupted by the quiet strains of Christmas music. The jolly music echoed through the store hollowly drawing attention to the absence of people and making the entire place seem eerily haunted to John as he passed the vacant spaces where shoppers had been only a few hours earlier. They walked down the empty aisles past abandoned purchases, and brightly colored toys some of which turned and made sounds as they passed. The Christmas tree loomed over them, a guilded giant making John want to cower and hide beneath the shelter of the clothing racks.

Finally they came to a door. She opened it and John passed into a dimly lit hallway. Light spilled into the corridor from one of the rooms, and John rushed ahead, standing in the doorway and watching Sherlock who stood in the center of a bare room, his hands steepled, his eyes closed in thought.

"John," he said and then opened his eyes glancing over to briefly scan his form before closing his eyes again. The edge of his lip curling up briefly into a smile.

John turned to Lestrade. "What is it?" he said. "What's happened to my wife."

"John, this case is pretty close to you. Perhaps you should stay out of..."

"Bullocks to that!" he yelled. "Tell me now, what's happened to my wife?"

"She's in this building, but we don't know where," Sherlock said.

"Officers are searching, but he's clever. I'm trying to think of where he will go next."

"Mary, is she hurt?" John asked, and Sherlock looked at him with a quick turn of his head. He saw the determination in John's eyes. The steadiness of his hands. Then he remember the man pulling her hair, her head hitting the stage floor. The dazed look on her face as he dragged her away.

"She was fine the last time that we saw her," he said turning his face away. Sherlock could feel the heat of suspicious eyes on him. He knew that he wasn't telling the whole truth.

John patted his coat looking around for the gun that wasn't there. The one that was safely hidden in the tool box under the kitchen counter in his and Mary's flat. John turned to look down the hall. Then he turned back to face Sherlock. "So, Sherlock. Where would he take her?" his voice was calm and low. Too calm. The calm before the storm.

Sherlock clenched his fists and closed his eyes as he traced his path back through the building to where he had last seen Mary being pulled through the door that was then shut in their faces. Sherlock imagined himself on the other side of the door. Where would they go next? They would have tried to get to the roof but hearing footsteps, they would turn to go another way.

Sherlock strode toward the door, and John fell back to let him pass, falling in step a little behind him. Sherlock came to a meeting of corridors and he paused for a second before turning down one and climbing up a stair. He walked up a series of steep steps turning to find himself in a room filled with five low tables, a refrigerator, and an automatic teakettle. The most remarkable thing, however, was a wall of windows that looked down on the store from above. He looked across at the golden angel set atop the giant Christmas tree.

"What is this place?"

"Employee lunch room," Donovan said.

"Why wasn't I told about this? We can see almost the entire floor from here."

"Sherlock," John said, "Mary, where will she be?"

"He'll start somewhere hidden, then he'll go to where he can spy out his route. We should leave this room clear. Have someone watching it remotely. Are there cameras here?"

"That's the first place thing that we checked. He damaged the link to the cameras before we arrived."

"He seems to be one step ahead of us wherever we go," Sherlock said.

"But we have the advantage," Lestrade said. "We have all of the exits blocked. He can't get out."

"But if he knows that he can't escape, what will he do to Mary?" John asked.

Lestrade looked at him, his face stricken, but Sherlock continued to stare out of the windows refusing to meet John's eyes.


	3. Round yon virgin

Mary was crouching inside of a closet. Her mouth and hands were wrapped with Gaffer tape, as a hand pushed down on her shoulders, the fingernails digging into her flesh. The murderous manager stood beside her looking at a small flat mirror that he had placed under the edge of the door. He bent down to look into it, and the light reflected off of it into his eyes. At the sound of heavy footsteps, he pulled the mirror backwards with the tip of his shoe, standing still as the handle of the door was rattled from the outside. He placed a knife against Mary's throat, and she stilled.

After the footsteps receded, he pushed the mirror back out through the crack, waiting before he unlocked the door from the inside and pulled her out.

Mary staggered a bit blinking against the light as he closed the door. She started to fall, but his cruel hands grabbed her and pulled her along in the opposite direction from the searchers. He pulled her down a side passageway and using a key opened the door before dragging her into a darkened room and letting the door fall shut behind her.

At first Mary couldn't see at all, but then her eyes slowly adjusted to the light. It was coming from the other side of a stack of boxes. He pulled her around the boxes and sat her on the floor. From this side, she could see a window that looked down onto the store. Below her, she could see the abandoned escalators moving up and down.

He glanced down at her. "They've already searched these rooms. It will take them quite a while before they think to search them again, if they ever do. While I'll be able to watch them the whole time." He pulled out a chair and sat. "You're probably wondering where we are. This room was originally built to be the manager's office. What better office could there be than one that allowed you to view the floor? From the other side, these windows look like mirrors. They stopped using it as an office because when the lights are on you can see inside. The previous manager didn't like the lack of privacy, so we converted this into a storeroom. He needn't have bothered. No one ever looks up when they are shopping. They never guess that we can see them. Oh the things that I have seen people do when they think that they are hidden from all eyes. People are so stupid. It was here that I first saw them, huddled together behind the curtains kissing when they thought no one could see them.

"You were with that detective, Sherlock Holmes who came to investigate the death. Mrs Watson, he called you. Watson. That's the name of his blogger isn't it? The one who kept saying that he was innocent? Everyone says they were sleeping together. Where does that put you, Mrs Watson? Did you ever find them the way that I found her, wrapped around that _loathsome_ man?

"You must understand then how I feel. How it hurts when someone you love betrays your trust like that. Such dishonesty can only be redeemed by death, don't you think? She deserved it, that teasing whore. She led me on each day with looks and smiles, and then secretly she and he... It makes my skin crawl just to think of it. The way she cried that it wasn't true when I had seen it, seen it with my own eyes!"

The man put his head in his hands and began to sob. Mary took the opportunity to look around her. The room was filled with boxes. It seemed that all sorts of things were just shoved into the room with no sense of order or reason. There was a desk and a chair near the window, and he sat there resting his elbows on the desk while he sobbed.

She needed a plan. A way to contact Sherlock. She thought of using her phone, but it was in her purse, left behind on the stage far below. It was possible that policemen might pass outside the door, but her mouth was taped shut, and her hands, taped tightly behind her back, couldn't reach them. She thought of slipping her wrists under her hips, but she wasn't the slender girl of her youth, and her arms could not slip past her hips. She flexed her hands and relaxed them trying to work the tape loose, but the edges twisted when she pulled rolling so that they seemed to bind her even stronger. She put her knees together and thought of pushing herself to her feet, but then she glanced over at the desk to see the man looking directly at her over his cupped hands.

"Don't try to escape," he said in a voice icy as sleet in winter. "I feel sorry for you, but I won't hesitate to slit your throat if you give me too much trouble."

Mary lowered herself and bowed her head until he looked away again. Combing the store below for signs of what the police planned to do.

"I loved her," he said quietly. "From the moment that she joined the staff, I loved her. I always planned to ask her to come away with me, but I was too shy. I saved my money, worked long hours, all in the hopes of asking her out on a minibreak. I had the tickets purchased. A trip to Italy. A beautiful little villa. We could be alone together. Show our true feeling apart from the prying eyes of the staff, but she said 'no'. He had already corrupted her. Her head had been turned by that burly, tempter, and I knew that I had to stop him. To get rid of him. To _end_ him. You understand don't you? You are in the same situation as me. Did that man tempt away your husband? You can be honest with me. All you have to do is nod."

Mary sat perfectly still.

"I understand, You don't know me yet. You're not ready to spill your sorrows to a stranger, but I understand you. I truly understand you, and I'll help you. The next time that I see that man, that Sherlock Holmes, I will kill him. I will kill him for you. You will see your rival bleed to death before we die."

Mary's eyes widened and she looked out into the store watching the pairs of policemen walking through the aisles searching. He was right, not one of them thought to look up.


	4. Shepherds watch

Ever since Mary had come to Sherlock with the news that John had fled, Sherlock had imagined their reunion. He had imagined, yelling, pleading, passionate kisses. He had even imagined dueling Mary to the death, but he had never imagined what did happen. The way that John simply walked into the room and fell to his side as he always had, asking the right questions, and offering advice in the same steady manner that Sherlock had come to rely on.

In his travels, he had thought of John constantly. For the first time, John and the work had been one, and if he were honest with himself, it had been one of his most challenging cases, because he had never been able to look at John in an objective way.

John always bent his perceptions, like a magnetic field. He focused Sherlock's thoughts but was not the focus himself, so Sherlock rarely really saw him objectively. This was never more apparent than the way he had so easily been left behind by him, wasting days pursuing leads that had become dead ends. He had not found John, John had found him.

True, the demands of his body had made things difficult, with his 'not fully recovered' mind palace, and the intermittent pain. But even with that, he should have been able to find him. The body was just transport after all, and someone with his level of mental discipline should have been able to put aside such petty distractions, just as he was trying his best now to put aside his awareness of John at his side.

Evidence of his trip covered John, from the scuff marks on the edge of his shoe to the tiny bit of orange thread stuck in his buttonhole. Clues in the coffee stain that suggested that he had skipped dinner, the mud and grass stains that showed that he had been kneeling somewhere on the ground. Could it be a graveside? if so, whose? Surely not his own which was in the opposite direction from John's path.

He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, examining the firmness of his lips which suggested resolve, the steadiness of his hand which suggested preparedness for action, and he knew that he had to perform for this man. He had to be brilliant because John would expect no less.

"Sherlock," John said. "You said that he would take her someplace where he could see what was happening in the store. He's not here, so where else would he go?"

Sherlock walked toward the window, placing a black gloved hand up against the glass as he looked around.

"Where? Where?" He muttered to himself. His eyes scanning up and down, looking at the large tree, and the store aisles, and the check out stands, and the escalators, but his mind was focused elsewhere, on the sound of John's breathing, the shuffle of his feet on the floor as he turned to face Sherlock's back.

What had he been doing? Why had he left? What did he want from Sherlock? Did he still want him anymore?

Mary was in trouble, and Sherlock needed to save her, not just for her own sake, but for John's. He remembered that cafe where John had explained his dreams. Dreams of a life and a family. Dreams that did not involve Sherlock. He had finally got a second chance with John, and he had blown it. He had disappointed him, and he couldn't for the life of him tell if it was because he had pushed John too fast, or had accepted him too slowly.

He closed his eyes needing to blot out the reflection of John in the glass, his blond hair sticking up a bit from where he had run his hands through it in worry. When he opened his eyes again, he saw, across the expanse, a row of mirrors on a bit of slanted ceiling. He pointed, turning back to face Lestrade who had reentered the room after consulting some of his men in the hallway.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"Those mirrors. They're the same as this room but on the opposite side. Is there another break room?"

"I don't know what that is, Donovan?"

She consulted a map and then walked out into the hall to talk to one of the staff. She returned a moment later to say, "She says that it's a storage room. It's similar to this room but a bit smaller."

"That's where I would go if I were him." Sherlock said, "I would be able to see where the men were stationed, and plan my escape."

"It's empty, the men have already searched it," Donovan said.

Sherlock deflated, his eyes falling to his feet, then he looked up again, "And Mary called to find that John was not at the hotel, but he did go there after the call. They could have gone to the room after the search. I'm sure that he's there. It would be the best place from which to observe our search, while remaining hidden from view. The only other place besides this room where he could do that is in the control room, but you've told me the security cameras were down."

"If he's in that room, then we should go there," John said, "now! We should go in force and get Mary out."

"It's not that easy," Lestrade said. "This is a hostage situation. If he thinks he's threatened, he could harm Mary before we could even get inside. We've got to take it slowly. First, we need to find a way to confirm where he is. If you're wrong, Sherlock..."

"I'm not wrong. He's either there now, or he soon will be."

"Then we'll go down and assemble a team to storm the place. You two hot heads stay here." Lestrade said looking sternly at both of them before rushing out of the staff room with Donovan on his heels.

Sherlock watched them go, then he realized that he and John were alone in the room. Without turning his head, he glanced over at John. He was biting his lip, lost in thoughts no doubt of how he could save Mary. Then his eyes turned to Sherlock, and he stared. His deep blue eyes pounding at Sherlock's until he had to turn away.

"I should go down with them," John said. "If they are storming the room. I need to be there."

"No," Sherlock said. "You should remain here."

John frowned angrily, "I had enough of that from Lestrade. There is no way that I am going to sit back and do nothing while my wife is in danger."

"That's not why I want you here," Sherlock said as he searched the drawers under the coffee machine. He pulled out a wad of mounting plastic and then looked through the dishes picking up a handled, flat-bottomed, soup mug. He walked to the window, and placed the sticky plastic on the bottom of the mug before pressing the bowl against the window at a little below chest height.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock reached into his breast pocket then and pulled out a ring which he placed on his pinky.

"Sherlock, is that my wife's wedding ring?"

"Yes," he said as he moved the sharp edge of the stone across the glass in a circle scoring a round hole around the soup mug.

"How did you get my wife's wedding ring?"

"I stole it while she was sleeping," Sherlock said before hitting the mug sharply with the side of his fist so that a round piece of glass popped out. It remained stuck to the mug which he lifted back inside the room before bending down and looking out of the hole onto the store below.

"And I say again, Sherlock. What are you doing?"

In answer, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out John's gun. He reached his arm out offering the handle to John. "When we find her, he'll probably hold something up to her head or her throat. He won't be looking out of the window then."

John looked at the hole that Sherlock had made, and nodded once sharply. "There's still the fact that that's a mirror. I won't be able to see inside."

"I'll find a way to make it so that you can see. You just need to be ready for what comes."

"Aren't I always?" John said, the corner of his lip rising into a smile. Sherlock stared. That wasn't a happy smile. That was the one that held knives. The one that meant that if Mary was hurt, the kidnapper was as good as dead. He looked away then and walked toward the door.

"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock stopped then, afraid to look back. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded, and then he rushed out of the door in search of Lestrade.


End file.
